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I am a feast,
of which voracious wolves encircle
their patient palates
wet with desire
I sanctify, yet am not sanctified
this recovered wildness
bares no resemblance to ferality
tangled and gnarled, my roots go deep
I nourish
whisper unto me your toil

—
I felt it
this tired bodies fire
across from the expanse of hell
a breath calls out
unyielding, tenacious
Its weary abandon
aghast at my chosen landscape.
porcelain collapse, I am naked under all this
burdensome armor chafing my bones
I feel no fear here

—
So then
when these times go asunder
allegiance
rapping at the door of your soul,
Don’t conclude he is so sinister.
I will herald a new age every twilight
and you can take the dawn
these bodies earned and bones reset
undone
in all your glory

—
dethrone the mask,
show me
your passions authoritative gaze
my sheathe for the lascivious nobleman;
tentative in his gaze, unravel me
arms flung open
I uncover your secret wings
in-between all of the honour
we soar
entwined & unabashed

Poetry is a selfish lover. A Bratty Princess.
She rolls over, at all hours – regardless of where I am, what I am working on, or whom I am working on – and she demands to be to be pleasured.

But – when I desire pleasure? inspiration? Like perhaps to ignite in writing my passion and adoration for each of you and these gatherings she replies

“ooooh sorry applecat, I have a headache – can I offer you a haiku? or a limerick even? that will do I am sure”

No, Poetry – a haiku will not do, not for the each of them – not for the dance we together weave.

Thankfully Poetry, -like me- is a voracious switch, and to evoke her submission all you have to do is own it Alpha Wolf style.

“Poetry you naughty little bitch!”

I command.

“I. Am. Your. Mistress. Roll over this instant and fuck me, fill me up with your LUSTFUL musings – for you are mine and I am yours, and with respect I demand you fuck me this instant”

and so with a sly and subby grin, as if that was her plan all along – fill me up she did.

And so, my love letter to Erotica Electronica

There are so many nights
left as blurs, memories of a memory
so many names I claimed to know, faces shifting into one another
some would have called me a shameless slut, others an empowered wanderer
But tonight, I will remember,
as you dance, fingers brushing against skin,
penetrative song, and teeth digging further in
I will revel in each orgasm, post party – regardless if I were there or not
Because tonight, the many are one.

This mask, his mask, her mask, their mask
all these masks to mask our truth, each a delicately crafted work of art,
each a facet of ourselves we choose illuminate
Masks of MULTIPLICITY,
you are not alone in your dark duality, wanton whispers as wet LIPS swell and part
by my MOUTH remands SHUT
Tried on, worn well
cookie cutter paper maiden, slide on, slide in – and out again – smeared over intense expression
Tied tightly, taken off
thrust hard against a wall of rebounding breath, face exposed, fairy tale
ravaged and unveiled

I see you, KIND OF HOLY, and A LITTLE PROFANE – together we gather, naked and BRAZEN – masks deemed obsolescent

you
Undress me with your eyes, dance as I pry you open
imagine lips between your thighs
like animals – teeth and bone, ivory and pink tissue dripping
this salacious carnality tastes like music
and perhaps, just perhaps
thats enough

I
with this found connection, our collective synchropation
half devoured,I slip deeper
into you,
SATIATING, with these secret SOUNDS
quivering in anticipation I BESEECH,
WITHIN this TANGLED orgy of MELODIES
drink me,
love this,
and I will be your slave

So hello tribe
I have mostly come to define you, by my bewildered inability to define you
So please, let whisper these songs to you
The carnal, earnest rage of BASS swelled in hot crescendos across my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by passion
each crafted sound, penetrating your ear, and body with a kind but fierce thrust
I’ll deliver each beat as my coveted discipline
for seeping from my every pore, is an arousing score
the bass and violin, making music of my sin

ah, may it be so that we mount and ride these deep sensual sounds into revolution

I would sip every drop of lust
From the expanse of our souls
back arched in ecstasy
body aching for the barest of touch
For sadistic as I am, how could I possibly be so cruel
to deny you the collective and cosmic climax you crave so much?

In this wild and broken world, you my loves – are both my comfort zone and my edge

The Music will play
Skin on skin, muscles clenching, bodies drenched.
beats are moaned, whimpered and sighed.
with every bar, each cavort grows more intense.
Harder and faster, throbbing, we delight in the ache, squirm and spiral -until-

FUCK

dramatically it crests, gasping, we collapse and fade into afterglow,
– and that is the true love letter yet to be played, and these are the songs of lustful adoration about to be told.

Romance is Sound and Dance. Together surrendering to the vibrational awakening of primal memory that audio stimulation and somatic movement invoke.

Romance is conscious flesh, each peaked sense arousing another – a domino effect of pleasure without shame or story holding them back

Romance is voraciously mind fucking while voyeuristically instigating the age-old courtship between intellect and creativity

Romance is drawn out road-trips to ambiguous destinations, worn out albums, the wind on your skin, and curious adventure on your heartstrings

Romance bends the rules

Romance is a Forever, a single serving delight – and everything that lays in between. Romance in it’s trueness is allowed to flow naturally.

Romance is a handmade art-piece.

Romance is collectively making a fundamental difference, combining combustible passions and alchemically crafting palpable meaning. It is being together for more of a purpose than just your togetherness.

Romance is time made sacred.

Romance in an age of constant information is eye contact, intention, and series of non verbal connections.

Romance is giggling uncontrollably.

Romance is subjective; the art of listening and seeing – and in turn allowing yourself to as well be listened to and seen.

Romance is tailor-made unconventionalism – against the grain and perfectly custom to each others unique tastes.

Romance is the concurrence of continued growth.

Romance is the willingness to Love fiercely and authentically; without old stories, oppression or fear.

Love – if a brim existed I would be filled to it; inside the sempiternal labyrinth that I am – these walls are plastered and insulated with every type of love.
All kinds: kinds that are of pleasure, kinds that are of darkness, kinds that are nurturing, kinds that are individualized, kinds that are universal – and kinds that I have not yet met.

Love is not a game of wits, or an incantation to fill empty time, nor is it a walk in the park – It’s an entity. It is everything that aches, elates, gives solace and inspires.

It aches yes – stretch marks branding the sides of my spirit. Expansion I keep insisting is beyond my means; and yet despite the howls my means have not come to an end.

Perhaps this Human condition is stronger than we are made to believe?

Ludus, Storge, Pragma, Mania, Agape
and
of course; Eros

And if This Love spoke:

“When I enter you I communicate divine love to the smallest of your cells. I blow across your mind like a hot hurricane that eliminates from your language all criticism, aggression, comparison, spite, and the entire scale of pride that separates the spectator from the actor. I insinuate myself into your sexual energy to soften all brutality, and all traces of conquest and possession. I confer to pleasure the sublime delicacy of an exploding angel. When I dissolve in your body, it is to detach you from the dictatorship of mirrors and models, the gaze of others, the pain of comparisons.

I permit you to live your own life and assume your own light and beauty. In the heart where I dwell, I drive out the illusions of the unloved child. Like the bell tower of the cathedral, I spread the penetrating vibrations of love in your blood, stripped of all resentment, all emotional demands that have become a travesty of hatred, and all jealousy, which is only the shadow cast by abandonment. I initiate you into the desire of obtaining nothing that is not also for others.

The island of the ego is transformed into an archipelago. Everything works in concert to increase my joy, even what you interpret as negative circumstances: mourning, difficultly, pettiness, obstacles … I love things and beings as they are with their infinite possibilities of development. At every instant I see them, and I am ready to take part in their blossoming, but also to accept that they remain as they are.”
~ The Way of Tarot

The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –
sometimes they still wake me;
arousing the warmest grief – an anamnesis that lives in my bones .
A bittersweet remembrance,
fostered by curious wondering as I wander on
– Faint I still feel a pulse. Still hear it’s beckoning.

She is an astroid – humming a lonely hymn

These nights I wake
Naked against the rocks – water begets air
ten tongues could not speak my reflection
a hundred hearts could not heal
that which I choose to keep mangled
Hell; perhaps it’s penance
perhaps it’s something else

Like smoke, she says I’m like smoke

and in these nights i wake wet
I thought of her a thousand times – still a name alludes me
breaching with subtly like the rising moon
laced with a silhouette
breaking bread with ghosts; rapacious and abandoned
and breaking silence with dissertation and prose-
-all for her

unknown, unsought, untouchable

Where have the maidens gone?
The mothers scorned and the crones forgotten.
Where is the Wild feminine? Kind and fierce –
Her seductive primal howl spreading herself open
– daring you come inside
Eyes sharp – she tears back with teeth and nail
the decaying meat that binds her
smiling with repletion.

She remembers.

they sought to save the world to take it somewhere safe,
but only succeed in leaving themselves behind
We are thoughts on tongue-tips now; and I terminate the words that tend
for what better
than to die a little death on tongues tip?
My cup over flows with a bittersweet memory;
easing the passing
of hungry ghosts that were never
meant for loving

The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –sometimes they still wake me

I long to sprawl out, creating universes-
-over the span of your bedspread
Devouring, and destroying,
super nova; dancing stardust over your body

I want to be 96% dark energy; to reflect our greatest enigma
A Riddle; 4% uncovered, under covers, breath and taste
I dream of drowning in-
this nowhere in which the body fluid,
far outweighs the oxygen,

From Goddess – to- Queen -to- The Reliably Objectified -to- The Harlot.
Rinse and repeat; this is what is terrorizing the women of our culture.

Constant shifts in surface level external mindstate; inability to differentiate between the self and others projections. This empathic alcoholism; these hearts poisoned by attentiveness. Leading to apathy by our exasperated and depleted sense of worth.

Are we Mothers? Virgins? Or are we Whores? are we none or all of thee above?

We are flesh; and soul; bone and spirit. A perfect harmony to the masculine. When the Divine masculine is skilfully embodied- the Sacred feminine thrives; and vice versa.

Smarten the fuck up. You, you and you. Yes you.

“The whore is traditionally regarded as a symbol for sin; this is because we have a distorted and illogical attitude to the sex act which is anti-life.
The whore sells sex so therefore is peddling a commodity that has already been contaminated by mainstream religions, patriarchy and capitalism.
Ishtar the compassionate whore has also been called Har or Hora – from which the words harlot and whore sprang. In Ishtar we see a mixing and vindication of spirituality and sex. The perception of this emotive term – ‘whore’ – is complex and multi dimensional.
For most people it is not a concept that can be easily intertwined with spirituality. Although the contemporary sex industry has within it women that are broken, abused and addicted, they are not all victims. Camellia Paglia describes harlots as not being the casualties of men, but rather their ‘conquerors’. To her the whore is an ‘outlaw who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture.’”